Chapter Ten
Reddington Hall, Mayfair
Half-past ten in the evening
Judith danced her anger, giving no quarter to awkward young gentlemen, and snipped so soundly at one young lord during their first few steps that he had remained silent the rest of the dance.
After the last bow, he scurried back to friends with a terrified look over his shoulder.
Perry, who had approached for what he called a “farewell reel,” retreated with a similar look when she reminded him that she did not dance with men who had other attachments.
Looking more like a wide-eyed pup than usual, he returned with haste to his new beloved and her scowling mother.
Judith did not care. Other men remained to dance, some even eager to match her energy if not her mood. A mood built of frustration and fury—with men, with the ton, with herself, with people in general. A wrath that threatened to consume her.
How could Edmund have been such a fool! How could I have!
She had been enraged for almost four straight days, since her confrontation with Edmund at Tuesday’s supper, barely sleeping and struggling to keep from turning her anger on the servants, who had hidden the reality of their situation from her.
But them she could forgive; they had done so in an attempt to protect her. Edmund had done so to deceive her.
But faced with her outright statements about the signs their money had drained away, he had collapsed under her furious accusations, confessing that a series of gambling debts and fraudulent investments—including a heftily financed partnership in a Triangular Trade shipping company that proceeded to have three ships sink in the North Atlantic—had turned a legacy of financial soundness into an estate in tatters.
In two years! The bottom line was that the burden of being an earl simply had been too much, and his unskilled attempts to outshine his father had pushed the family close to ruin.
In the end, Judith blamed herself. She had been so lost after her husband died she had been relieved to hand the estate over, not realizing that she herself had thrived at her stepson’s age precisely because her experienced and gallant husband had been beside her.
And her mother-in-law. And a wise housekeeper.
Upon her marriage, Judith had been gifted with mentors, guidance, and help.
But she had thrust all the duties at Edmund and Margaret without any advice or recommendations, blithely accepting that they neither desired nor needed her aid.
But she included them in her wrath as well.
They had been prideful, even in the face of a downfall.
They had rejected offers of help from the estate’s stewards, land managers, and their man of business when those professionals recognized what was happening.
And at even a mild suggestion that she could use some help, Margaret had puffed up, lording her position over the housekeeper and the staff, insisting that she knew best.
After her initial burst of rage, Judith had merely said, “Show me the accounts and let us get to work.”
And they had, the three of them meeting with the people who could help them in a steady stream of appointments—encounters fueled by Judith’s ire, which flared when either Edmund or Margaret complained of being tired, or in Margaret’s case, bored.
The boredom comment had provoked a tantrum in Judith that left Margaret sobbing in her bedchamber for a full day.
As their examination of the estate turned up lie after lie, Judith’s mood continued to sour.
She knew she had no real power to do anything—the title and estate were fully Edmund’s, and he could do as he wished with them.
They all knew it. But she had landed on them like a hawk in full attack—wings flared and talons extended—and they had caved beneath her knowledge, her determination, and their own panic at a future with no income.
Harsh steps had already been taken. Margaret’s allowance and clothing budget had been slashed, and Judith had surrendered part of her widow’s portions to the estate in order to pay off some of the most immediate debts.
They partitioned off two of the tenancy farms from their country estate to sell to a neighboring baron, as well as scheduling more of the artwork and furniture from the country house to be put to auction.
Judith put a halt to the sale of their livestock, however.
A breeding herd was an investment with great potential returns.
Besides, she despised Whitlow and would rather starve than see her beloved horses go to him.
Other investments were turned over to their man of business for the next few months, and Judith and the housekeeper had reclaimed the household expenses, with the promise to train Margaret in how to best manage them—which did not include the younger woman’s obsession with sugar and the finest teas, wines, and meats.
They would recover, but it would be a long and difficult journey.
Now Judith turned her attention to those who had led Edmund down this path; they would face confrontation, as well as a demand for restitution.
Starting tonight.
Judith had searched for her prey all evening, finally spotting Mark Rydell—and his mother—when they entered the room a few moments after ten.
Finding them only after so many fast and furious dances was probably fortunate for all three, as some of her anger had abated under the expenditure of energy.
Yet she still fought the urge to march directly to them, skirmish in mind.
That would be inadvisable in more than a few ways, including one that could leave her vulnerable—she no longer trusted Edmund to be completely truthful with her.
He had hidden so much, lied so much to cover his failings that Judith had lost faith in his ability to be honest on any level.
She had their account books to verify much of what he had told her—foolish investments, drained coffers—but nothing to back up his claims of who had lured and encouraged him to take such a dark path.
And Lord Mark Rydell had been named among the most prominent of the villains, along with one of Rydell’s best friends, Sir Rory Campbell.
At least according to her stepson. But as Judith danced, doubts swirled around her more freely than her skirts.
She watched the Rydells even as Phyllida watched everyone else, her ubiquitous fan getting a thorough workout.
Lord Mark sat next to her, looking abjectly miserable.
Good.
Any affection, any desire she may have had for the man had shattered under her stepson’s explanations.
Reportedly one of the worst of the corrupting influences, Lord Mark Rydell had lured Edmund into gambling establishments, introducing him to predatory gamblers and erstwhile business associates.
It made sense as Edmund explained it. The man did have a notorious reputation, frequented infamous hells, and seemed to have a source of income no one could explain.
It had been Rydell, Edmund proclaimed, who had encouraged him to invest in the Triangular Trade shipping companies, a chance to pay back money Edmund owed Rydell from gambling.
That one decision had been the nail in their financial coffin, a substantial and risky investment now at the bottom of the Atlantic. Everything had cascaded from there.
According to Edmund, Rydell held all the cards, all the debts, all the vowels.
Although right now, Rydell appeared as if he held nothing but his mother’s arm.
The man sat gingerly beside the duchess, his face as pale as bleached muslin.
He held his body at an odd angle, stiff and still.
He had not danced, had barely even risen to greet approaching nobles, since they had entered the room.
Any beverage had been delivered on a footman’s tray, and when Rydell did stand, he leaned heavily on a solid, black cane.
What the bloody hell was wrong with him?
The man looked to be a shell. Not the bold and energetic dancer she remembered or expected. Nor the enthusiastic and commanding flirt who had stolen one of her favorite silk stockings.
That memory heated her face even more than the dancing. Had that been part of their ruination as well? Part of his schemes to destroy Edmund?
Why would Rydell want to destroy my son? My family?
It made no sense. None. And her mind, her determination, turned cautious.
The music ended, and when her partner turned her toward the edge of the crowd, she pulled away—gently but firmly—and gave him a wan smile. “Thank you, my lord, but I need to take a rest for the next set.”
Judith acknowledged his startled expression with a pat on the arm, then turned toward a beverage table near the far wall of the ballroom.
She scooped up a small cup of lemonade and sought out an elaborately decorated ficus tree as a refuge.
She wedged her body and the skirts of her rose-colored gown between the tree’s pot and the wall, peering out through the branches at the rest of the ball’s guests, careful not to entangle the feathers and ribbons in her hair in the leaves.
The Reddington ball had always been a highlight of the season.
Their hosts, Lord and Lady Brawley, Earl and Countess Reddington, spared no expense.
Even the lemonade revealed the money behind the event—overly sweet and thick with lemon pulp—which made it, to Judith’s taste, as foul as the normally weak and watery brew served at most balls.
Congenial to all comers, Lord and Lady Brawley welcomed their guests into a room filled with Egyptian-themed decorations and champagne served early and often.
Even her tree’s pot carried the theme, hieroglyphics circling it like marching soldiers.